


And You'll Shower In The Morning

by Davechicken



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was going to be such a good day, too, until House happened to jump to the wrong conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You'll Shower In The Morning

The day had started so well, too. Cuddy had left for a weekend conference, so she hadn’t been around to check his Clinic hours were actually spent treating patients. She’d yet to specify in his contract exactly _how many_ patients he had to see, just that he had to be in the Clinic and see patients, so technically he was doing what she’d asked him to. And if it meant he got to watch General Hospital while waiting for Wilson to arrive for his consult, when he knew full well Wilson was tied up for at least the next fifteen minutes or so with the twenty-one year old with the latest run of impossible, but lethal symptoms… well. This was what he was paid for.

It was when he accidentally overheard the nurses - those lazy slackers, damn them - discussing the latest John Doe while he was trying to find out the latest news on who was screwing who, and what the current rumour about him was, that the day started to get considerably worse.

“…such a pity too, he was so polite. Why someone as clever as him would end up on the streets…”

“Could be anything. People with mental problems often seem charming and intelligent. He mustn’t have wanted to work. People like that make me…”

House opened the door, and his patient jumped at the speed he moved. So did the nurses.

“Jewish?”

“I… Doctor House…”

“I’m sorry. I forgot people with mental problems often can’t work out context and need painfully detailed instructions. Jewish. Was he Jewish?”

Technically it was none of his business. Technically he should have been poking thermometers into people to prove the lack of elevation in their temperature and giving them pep talks and pamphlets. Technically this man was dead, and so of no further interest. Technically the nurse was looking suitably cowed and confused. All the better to get answers out of her before she remembered not to divulge.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say he was…”

“But he didn’t say he wasn’t. And I’m taking it he could pass as a Jew if you’re not telling me he was a Montezuma pigmy with a string of concubines. Yes? Middle aged? What colour hair?”

“…Mid-brown.”

“Is everything alright?” 

Wilson. Wilson was here for his consult. The nurse was gathering her wits, and House had to stop asking questions in front of him, although Wilson would never put two and two together and get a thirty-something.

“Yes. No. Patient in here for you to look at, Doctor Wilson. And you? Shoo. Go nurse things. Preferably people.”

Before anyone could gather their wits, he spun (awkwardly) on his good heel and hobbled back into the room. Wilson would be giving him the look, he knew, but he felt the way the other doctor’s gaze and outward focus slid to the patient, even though he knew – thought? – that inside, James was still looking at him. Wondering.

“Patient has a ‘lumpy thing’ in his happy sacks. He also thinks I’m not qualified enough to tell him he’s not dying. It was too far to walk for my medical certificate to prove I do know what I’m talking about so I thought it quicker to page you.”

“But I want a… myopsy. I heard about people who…”

“You want difficulty in seeing objects that are far away? Hmm. I know there’s corrective treatment to cure it, but I’ve never heard of anything to _cause_ it deliberately, though I suppose it could be arranged…”

“I meant, I want you to check it’s not a… malignant tumour,” the patient insisted. 

Wilson was looking now, calm, cool and professional. “It isn’t.”

“ _Thank_ you, _Doctor_ Wilson.”

“How can you tell?”

The snap of rubber held just the right amount of contempt, and the man cringed in front of them both, sitting on his hands. House smirked. He was rubbing off on Wilson.

“Because you have a boil, Mr Davis. Which, as Doctor House may or may not have told you, is completely safe, and just unsightly and possibly as a result of poor personal hygiene, or an underlying disease. Order some bloodwork and notify him when the results come through.” The last to him, without even looking in his direction.

Wilson was being cooler than he normally was. Maybe he’d called him out once too often this month, to alleviate his boredom. Maybe gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. Maybe it was Julie. House didn’t know. 

“Excellent diagnosis, Doctor, couldn’t have put it better myself. And oh, would you look, my Clinic hours are up. You,” to the patient, “find one of those nurses and ask them to test you for all boil-inducing STDs. Then don’t have sex for a month after the results. Just to be safe.” 

Wilson didn’t ask whatever question he wanted to, so they went back to their twenty-one year old statistical improbability, and his _real_ job.

 

***

 

He asked it later. House had just taken the last dose of vicodin of his working day, and was leaning slumped on his cane in his chair, Pink Floyd in the background. Pretentious, he thought to himself, lost youth. 

“Hey.”

House bit his bottom lip, not wanting to look up. If he ignored the other man, he might go away.

“Your patient is stable and if you don’t leave this office soon, who knows how crazy you might go?”

It would have been easy to pull a stupid face, make a dry comment, slip back into the role he’d adopted for public display. The pain in his leg wasn’t as bad as it could be, and he wasn’t especially tired or stressed. He looked up.

“Your missing brother. Did he have an underbite, by any chance?”

“…No.”

“Ah.” He nodded. Dropped his head back down.

“You thought you’d found him.”

“No. I’m doing a study into the environmental and genetic factors in jaw malformations. Masticular defects have always been something of a hobby of mine. Right after collecting porn and prank calling Cuddy when I’m bored.”

James didn’t speak for the longest time. The silence was painful, for once, and the request for him to leave was dancing on the tip of Greg’s tongue. He didn’t say it.

“We should leave, before it’s time for our next shift. And the cleaner’s been around three times waiting for you to go home, so unless you never want a vacuum to touch these floors again, we should go.”

He nodded. Smiled – the grin he used that showed his teeth and had kept more people at bay than he could count. Wilson just waited until the stiffness in his leg won out, and he levered himself to his feet. “Right. Because without my mint on my keyboard each morning, how would I go on?”

 

***

 

The ride was painfully quiet. Wilson drove, for a change, because he needed something to think about and keep himself occupied, and because House felt every little jolt in the road like a bolt slammed painfully across in his leg. _Click, click, click._ Inconvenient, them both in one car, the other left in the lot overnight. It didn’t happen all that often, but no one had yet said anything in his hearing about it. Wilson was married and House was known to hate everyone. Sometimes he really appreciated his reputation.

The television rarely interested them at times like this, but Wilson turned it on anyway. Habit, noise, hope against all hope – who knew. He’d never shared House’s love of the thing; it was just one other area where they differed.

“Beer?” he asked, walking through to the kitchen without waiting for permission. House’s beer, and he should be offering it, but they never went to James’ place, and they’d never exactly been a conventional pair.

House nodded, sank gratefully into the couch, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything, but unable to find anything to say. At least until the third bottle.

“I thought about it, sometimes. Walking out one day, not coming back.” Wilson’s voice was oddly… level. As though any trace of emotion right now would be dangerous. This was a minefield, one wrong step and James could blow. Greg had never been very good at those kind of thing. He’s loud, rude and obnoxious to avoid just this type of talk. Late night confessions, drunken blurs and heart-pouring. In the morning, they’ll still both feel like shit, and not just from the booze.

“I did too, until I realised I wouldn’t get very far.” A lift of the cane, the usual self-deprecation. It sounded stupid and he wished he wouldn’t say it to James, but he can’t do this kind of thing. It hurts too much.

James ignored the joke. “I would check anyone who matched his description at first. Never told the receptionists why.”

“I’m sure they thought you were just looking for your Mr Right. Don’t worry. I’ll cover for you, say it was me. Now shh. Little Timmy is down the well,” he replied, waving a half-empty (half-full?) bottle at the screen.

“He’s dead, Greg.”

“Then there’s no need to keep looking, is there? Timmy isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. So why don’t you watch this instead? In fact, why don’t you buy a dog. They have wonderful homing instincts and are a hell of a lot more reliable than people anyway.”

James snorted. 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yes?”

“I always thought of you as a cat person, is all. You just seem the type.”

 

***

 

Beers four, five and six went with depressing speed, but after the slight dizzy feeling of before, House’s body had decided to skip straight to the ‘small, drenched, flea-infested rat moved into mouth’ stage, and his head seemed too tight, his stomach too small. Timmy was safe. People had waved banners. James’ breathing slowed to an impossibly low, slow wheeze that had Greg wanting to shake him, just to make it go faster. There was an impossible pause before each inhalation that just… dragged.

If they weren’t talking, did it still count as drinking in company, and therefore not a problem?

James sobbed.

“Hey. No wetting my chair. People are only allowed to cry in my presence if I made them. And I haven’t pulled your hair or called you names. Not today anyway.”

“Sorry.” James sobbed more. Greg closed his eyes. James rubbed his.

“Sorry. I’m… bad day at work… Julie and I…”

“Life sucks, I know, but crying won’t get you anything but a Kleenex here. Now stop before I call 911. And then do something we’ll both regret.”

Obviously the wrong thing to say, because then his friend was bawling and wiping his eyes and Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d even seen Wilson more than tear up in the presence of overwhelming pathos. Alcohol. A depressant. So why so many people were stupid enough to drink it when they needed cheering up was one of those mysteries of the universe. Like how on earth Cuddy managed to fit into some of her tops.

“Come on. You’ll only hate yourself in the morning, it’s better if you sleep it off. Get plenty of water in you and make sure you don’t choke in your sleep, because I really don’t want to have to explain _that_ to the cops.” On his feet, nudging Wilson’s with the end of his cane.

James nodded, trying desperately not to make a noise. He could see the more behind his eyes, the more he so desperately needed to say, and that Greg really just couldn’t hear. He slapped the back of James’ legs when he stood, shepherding him to the stairs.

“I don’t need a shower. I’ll have one in the morning,” he said, voice trembling.

“Not a shower. Bed. B – E – D. You’re sleeping this off.”

“I can sleep on the couch…” As he had done many nights before.

“So you can suffocate on your own vomit and I have to haul my sorry ass down the stairs to revive you? I think not. Up. Then I can listen to you die in comfort.”

He ignored the look on Wilson’s face and waited a second before hitting him again. James nodded, head bowed, then staggered slowly up. He moved about as fast as House himself. 

When they got there, James stood for a minute before he looked at him stupidly. “Left or right?”

“What?”

“Left or right. Side. Julie always…”

“Look, either side, though the one closest the bathroom is probably best for you. Are you always this much trouble? No wonder the women hate you.”

That strange expression again. 

“What?”

“You don’t have a side?”

“Of course I do. All sides are my side. Now shut up and lie down before I really lose my patience with you.”

That seemed to do the trick because James sank onto one side of the bed, then curled up ever so slightly around his knees – protectively. Still dressed. House looked down at his shoes, then sighed. “At least get in the recovery position. Please tell me you remember how to do that?”

Obediently, the other man nodded and rearranged himself, still lying as close to the edge of the bed as possible, trying not to intrude. Greg shook his head. He wasn’t exactly one to encourage proximity, but it pained him to see the other man trying to hide so much. He shuffled around to the other side of the bed, unbuttoned and shucked his shirt, pushed off his shoes and socks and lay on the bed beside him in t-shirt and trousers. Normally he didn’t sleep in much at all, but he figured he could cope for one night.

In the darkness, he lay. James’ breathing slowed and evened, and he thought he must finally be asleep, so he risked moving to try and get his leg more comfortable, cursing through gritted teeth. 

“She would have put me in the bath and left me there, you know.”

“Your mother? Terrible woman, she is. Terrible, terrible…”

“My wife.”

“She’s just as bad.”

Silence, again. The dull creak of springs underneath. A dog howling would have been good right about now, but the world wasn’t feeling theatrical enough.

“Even you’re nicer to me than her. Than anyone. How fucked up is that, that the person who’s kindest to me is the grumpy, snappy misanthrope who doesn’t like anyone.”

“Not fair. I liked that masseuse.”

A snort, and he was glad he couldn’t see James’ eyes shining in the dark. His shirt was a crumpled mess. He’d have to borrow Greg’s clothes in the morning to get home.

“You and my job. All I have in the world. My longest, most successful relationship in the world, and you don’t even like me. Or you do, but you like your principles and your pride more.”

I don’t like people. I don’t like anybody. I don’t like you. The words didn’t come.

“Go to sleep, James. I’ll make fun of you in the morning.”

A nod, and it shook the bed just a little. Strange, to feel it move under someone else. How long since that had happened last? There was a painful distance in James’ voice, and he wondered how long it would take this time before the shame and embarrassment left. If he was a nice man, he’d pretend to get wasted too some time, just to make it seem like this went both ways.

A sigh, low and heavy. Loud in the empty room. “And I thought it was supposed to be easier to be straight. I thought I was.” Tears in the pillow, and if he could have, Greg would have rubbed his back and lulled him to sleep. 

He couldn’t.

James would smell of beer and pizza and exhaustion and tears. Kissing him now would be a terrible idea. And it would be even if Greg was sure he was inclined in that particular direction. He didn’t know if he wanted riotous, rampant, ridiculously wrong sex with James. Or maybe he did, but he wasn’t sure if he just wanted the sex, and if it being him had anything to do with it. But right now, sex was the furthest thing from his mind. All he wanted to do was to rub his back and kiss his mouth and fall asleep in a stupidly close position, smelling of beer and exhaustion.

He didn’t do that either. He just lay in the dark, leg hurting through the slight fuzz of beer, warm, pathetically lonely person in the bed beside him. And this the most comfort either of them got.

‘I thought I was.’ So did I, he thought, and waited ‘til morning came.


End file.
